


Canis Major, or The Babysitting Story

by zealousprince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First War, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealousprince/pseuds/zealousprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius talks about stars, war, and love, and none of it makes much sense. Good thing his only audience is a baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canis Major, or The Babysitting Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the R/S Games 2015 and beta'd by the inimitable [Phiso](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso).

Hello, Prongslet. Do you remember me?

I don't reckon you do. You're only a baby, after all. In my experience, babies don't really remember much. I should know, I've been one.

Oh, you're smiling. I must have said something funny. Then again, who knows what makes babies happy? You lot are both notoriously easy and difficult to please.

I guess I should hold you or something. People say that's good for babies. Here, I'll just hold you on my lap for a bit, and you can give me some feedback on it. Yea or nay. One gurgle for yes, two for no. Thumbs up or thumbs down? Nothing? I'll give you more time to think on it.

I don't suppose you want to hear a story? I promise it'll be a good one. Not that I expect a baby to have much of an opinion on stories, or on much of anything, for that matter.

On second thought, maybe you wouldn't be so keen on a story. After all, your dear old dad talks an awful lot. Wouldn't it be just typical of an adult  to continue talking your little ear off just as you've finally found some measure of peace and quiet? Yes, I agree, it is a very adult-like thing to do. How you babies must tire of our silly mouth noises going on and on, day in and day out.

Not me, though. I rather like our mouth noises. Maybe that's a sort of conditioning: you get so used to hearing the inane blatherings coming out of each other's mouths that you sort of come to expect it, and before you know it you've even begun to look forward to it, even crave it. It's insidious, I tell you, this talking thing. It's like moths, or the smell of cigarette smoke. Getting into everything, what.

For the sake of the baby-kept record, I haven't smoked in ages. You make sure to tell your mum that. Cheers.

So, a story. I suppose one is in order, if only to pass the time during this babysitting lark. And since you can't talk yet, then it looks like it's my job to fill the spaces in between your bouts of baby babble.

So what's your taste in stories? Adventure stories, I bet. Grand journeys, swashbuckling, mounds of treasure and glory. No? You're kind of just looking at me, so I guess that's a no. Not a very high-octane kind of baby, are you? Your mum did say you were rather peaceful. Normally, I'd just put that down to you being boring, but seeing as you're a baby, you don't really have the capacity to be much of anything yet, so I'll withhold judgement on your character for now.

What about romances? Sweeping declarations of affection and love, epic deeds, swooning kisses? Do you even know what a kiss is? Here's one, to be sure. Feel familiar? You know I can't really read you when you're just looking at me with those great big eyes. In fact, I feel a little judged. Oh, but there's a smile, now. I guess you were only kidding.

So that's a no to adventure stories and romantic stories. I don't suppose you're more of a non-fiction kind of baby? Because I happen to find non-fiction tremendously dull. Not that I find true stories to be dull in and of themselves, it's just--you know when you're trying to read something (not you, specifically, seeing as you can't read, but bear with me), for class or for your own general knowledge or something, but no matter how hard you try you just can't get into it because it's so dry? That's what I hate about non-fiction. Way to make a potentially good story the most boring read on the planet, truly.

Whoever writes those horribly dull non-fiction things should take a leaf out of my book. I mean, I'm interesting, right? I agree, I am absolutely riveting. I can see your huge doe eyes concurring with me. I bet you ten quid that I could take any of those boring-dull-snorefest true stories and make them the most gripping thing you've ever heard. (Do you even have ten quid? When does your allowance kick in, did your parents say?)

So here's my suggestion. I will tell you a story that is absolutely true.

You see those stars on the wall? Here is one true thing about them: me, your very eminent and dignified godfather, and your uncle and your other uncle spent most of a week painting all of those onto the wall. Your dear demanding parents, bless their souls, wanted something really special for your nursery/bedroom/baby-sized luxury suite, so us three back-up parents decided to take on the challenge. Seeing as your mum and dad -- and by association, you -- were and still are some of the dearest people in the world to us. Would you spend nearly a week of your life perched at the top of a rickety old ladder, meticulously daubing silver paint in intricate patterns all over the room of a baby who doesn't even know what a star is, simply out of a sense of complete and overwhelming love? I am absolutely certain that you would. Well, maybe one day. You shouldn’t be on ladders at your age.

Anyway, do you see that star over there? The very, very big and bright one, right in the middle of the sky? That's me, the Dog star. Not much to look at in the daytime, I know, but you know what they say about bright lights. They shine best in the darkness, or something or other. On second thought, that is probably not a good analogy, considering I am good to look at all the time, not just in the dark.

And do you see that group of stars over there? It has an official name, but some people call it the Stag. That's your dad. Note the antlers. We spent a lot of time getting them right. Your dad is very proud of his antlers, like the great prat that he is. Sorry, I mean like the great prick he is. Sorry, I mean--well, he's your dad. You must know what he's like by now. Anyway, the Stag is bit of a wanker sometimes, but he's strong and really an all right sort once you get to know him.

Over there is the Rat. We actually had to borrow him from a different star system, so he looks a little out of place, but he's always kind of been around, so why not. We love him even though he's a little weird and little frail and a lot quiet. He'll always be there for you, make no mistake.

And right here is the Wolf. Lovely, isn't he? I think so too. Though don't tell him I said that, he'll be embarrassed. He gets embarrassed rather easily for such a big and powerful thing. He was very careful, painting all the little stars of himself onto this wall. I think he wanted to look his best for you, so you wouldn't be afraid. He needn't worry, though. I've never felt anything but safe with him, and I'm sure you will, too.

The thing about the four of us is that we didn't used to be close like this, all together on these four walls. It took some doing. Years in the making and all that. Do you have any concept of what a year is, let alone several? I don't see how you could, seeing as you don't even have a full one under your tiny baby belt.

(Speaking of belts, there's Orion's. A bit too close to the Dog star for my liking, but well, there's no changing where we're from.)

Anyway, the story about us. The Dog, the Stag, the Rat, and the Wolf. Once upon a time, it used to be that we didn't know each other at all. It comes from being born in radically different places, and I don't just mean geographical location. Your dear old godfather, for example, was born in London, which is at once the best and worst city in the entire world. It really shapes a person to be raised in a place of such raging opposites, let me tell you. Though I imagine you'll learn all about that, being born to the two most different people I have ever had the grand pleasure and occasional frustration of knowing.

So the Dog is from the heart of the city, and the Stag is from its head, perhaps, or maybe one of the legs. (Not so close to the centre, is what I mean to say.) The Rat is from a small town, a quaint and quiet place where nothing scary ever happens, and the Wolf is from the countryside, where scary things grow.

A bit unfairly stereotyped, is the countryside, I should say. After all, many good people come from it. Your uncle the Wolf did. The thing is, he didn't always used to to be the Wolf. We all became who we are through various means, but his was by far the most painful.

Maybe I shouldn't tell you that particular story. It isn't really mine to tell. Ask your uncle when you're older.

Now, you must be wondering how it is that these four very different people met. I can tell you that like most grand endeavours, it begins with a journey. This one takes all of us far north, into the land of silver trees and endless winters. We journey by train, a long scarlet thing that leaves trails of smoke dark as storm clouds. We meet by accident, considering how different we all are, but maybe that's what draws us all into this adventure in the first place.

I should tell you that my first act as newly minted adventurer is to fail, and rather spectacularly at that. Seeing as I was a spoiled, insufferable prat at the beginning of all this, I think that I rather deserved it. (Just do me a favour, man to man, and don't tell your dad I admitted it.) It turns out I got a little lost right at the start of the adventure, and ended up in the entirely wrong House. Though I really should call it the entirely right House, considering everything that happened afterwards, but at the time it was devastating. But you know -- or you don't know, for which you will one day be grateful -- that's what happens when you grow up in a home like mine.

Anyway, in the grand scheme of things that's neither here nor there. The point is that this House is the place where we all congregated, your starry uncles and your godfather and your dad. I can inform you with much certainty and fond nostalgia that once the initial ice had been broken, we had ourselves many, many adventures, and were happy for a good long while.

I don't know if you've noticed (who knows what babies notice, really), but the world isn't quite so wonderful these days.  I suppose one could say that in your perception, they've always been kind of bad, considering how short a time you've been alive.

You already know that I am one who is often given to metaphor. Maybe this is excessive of me, but I am usually excessive, so here I go: you are a shining ray of light. Not my best work, I can tell, based on your little frown just now I have to agree, but you have to forgive my occasional lapses in creativity, as your poor dear godfather has been under a lot of stress lately.

You probably don't know what this means, and I hope with all my heart that you never have to, but here are the facts: we are at war. We have been for a while. What's a war? Can I eat it? you say, with those big adorable eyes ("so much like your mum's", I could mention, but I'm sure you must be really tired of hearing it by now). Once again, I hope you never have to know. There are some things the world just doesn't need. Compare with babies, for an example. Babies, needed. War, not.

And you, Prongslet, in particular, are very, very much needed. You may find this difficult to believe, with your nascent worldview and all, but we grown-ups who have been fighting this war -- some of us longer than others -- had almost forgotten what it was like. New life, I mean. New love. In war, it seems like things are only lost.

But you...you've proven this to be untrue. All you had to do was be born. Do you realize how incredible that is? To be so much to so many people, just from the simple fact of living. That's love, I tell you. Simple, elegant, exquisite. Magic, is what it is. The purest, most powerful form there is. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

...Sorry about that, That was perhaps a much bigger and deeper sigh than was warranted for that sentence. It's just the mention of love always makes me think a whole lot of thinky thoughts. Usually this is very arduous so I try not to do it too regularly, but you must know, I'm simply too brilliant to not be thinky every so often.

I love you, you know that? I'm sure you've been told this many, many times already over the course of your short little life, but more the better, especially when it comes to love.

I imagine one day you'll come to know what I mean, so I might as well prime you for it before you have the time to be ruined by anyone else's subjectivities: I say I love you, and you say it back (burble once for yes and twice for yes very much), and that's all fine and grand, but you should know, sometimes it just really hurts to love. I've experienced that far too many times for it to not be true. It's a fact; there's simply no way it isn't. Am I insisting on this too much? Well, pardon me, Sir Prongslet, but even the switching of your attention from your very riveting godfather to your very riveting toes cannot stop me from imparting this very important life lesson, so pay attention.

Love, quite frankly, sucks, to the use the evocative Americanism. Sometimes it makes you want to want to claw your heart out and stomp on it and call it names. Bad and awful, in summary. I've been feeling a lot like that lately, if I'm being completely honest. Clawy, stompy, the like. It's like when you have a temper tantrum over your nappy being damp or your baby food being too mushy or whatever, except much more painful and horrid.

And if you think that sounds like the absolute worst way to spend a Friday evening, just wait until I get to the discussion on romantic love. You would think it would be easy, being in love. It's so common, so inspirational. People have been writing about it ever since there were alphabets to write with, and probably even before. Most of the songs that exist right now, on this Earth, are about being in love. Half of this admittedly one-sided conversation has been about it, in its various forms. But you know which love I'm talking about, right? The one that makes you choose someone out of the unknowingly infinite assortment of people you've ever come across over the course of your life and say: oi, you. Yeah, you. I have a proposal for the next stage of our relationship, and you may or may not like the sound of it, but I'm going to give it anyway, because that's just how I roll. Let's be a couple or something, yeah?

(Again for the baby-kept record, your dashing and debonair godfather has always delivered these proposals in a most elegant and pre-meditated manner. It's merely that I had to provide a simple example to accommodate your significantly lower level of comprehension.)

Anyway. That sort of love is the love that the songs are about. The love that sonnets are written about. The love that makes people sprint across train stations and shout from the rooftops and write sad poetry on the walls. The love that makes you lie awake in the dead of night, wondering endlessly if you still have it, or if it was misplaced long ago.

I suppose it must sound silly to you, misplacing love. It must seem like such an obvious thing to have. But you're lucky, Prongslet. You've already been promised love from the very start. Some of us, while not so badly off, aren't quite as lucky as you are. Yours truly included.

Don't be sad for me, though. (Really, don't--I haven't figured out a foolproof way of consoling you when you're crying yet.) Just because I wasn't assured love from the beginning doesn't mean I don't have it now. In fact, I have loads of it. Baskets just full of love, I say. There's a basket for your dad and a basket for your mum, and there's a basket for you and some little extra baskets all set up in advance for the oodles of siblings your parents are bound to bang out in a few years' time.

And there are baskets for my two other favourite people in the world, your dearest uncles. So you see, that's a basket for all my favourite people and more.

Now to needlessly extend the metaphor: imagine one of these baskets, all pretty and nice, has suddenly fallen over and spilled all the glittery pieces of love all over the place. Not pretty and nice anymore, I think you agree. That's kind of what's been going on lately, in the middle of all this war shite--sorry language, I know--and everything. All of my pretty little baskets, toppling over one by one. A crying shame is what they call it.

Now this is bad enough when your baskets are for general love, or for brotherly love, or for, Merlin forbid, parental love, but the toppling-over of a romantic love basket always seemed to me to be particularly poignant and awful. Maybe I just put too much stock into it, who knows. Psychologize me if you like, but do it while my back is turned, please, there’s a good baby.

Anyway...I suppose this goes without saying, but the romantic love basket in my life seems to be terribly wobbly as of late. Not completely tipped over, not yet, but it's just one of those matter of time things, you know? That's what happens when you keep secrets. Too many secrets knock the basket over.

Can I tell you something, Prongslet? Something really important, even more important than everything I’ve just finished telling you. Are you ready? Here it is.

There will be times in your life where everything and everyone who is important to you will feel very far away. As far away as those little stars out there in the sky. See them? So small you can barely see their glow. Now look at the stars here on the wall. Yes, you’re right, that one’s me. And there’s the Stag, and the Rat, and the Wolf, all together in one room, so close together our stars are nearly touching. That’s what we’re like, you know. Always close enough to lend a hand or keep an eye out for mischief. When we’re not making it, of course.

Now, think about this. Sometimes, in those moments when your love is hurting you and when your baskets are toppling over, those stars that used to feel so close together? They feel far apart, as far as we are from the stars there out the window. Do you know what it’s like, to feel so far away from the people you love most that it makes you feel all alone in the big empty sky?

Here’s my wish for you, Prongslet. I hope you never have to find out how that feels. We’ll all make sure you never do, and here’s how we’ll do it: by protecting you and loving you and making sure you never ever have to grow up in a world where you have to be afraid every day. Because you know what happens when you’re afraid? It makes everyone look far away, even when they aren’t. It makes it seem like your closest and dearest friends are as far as the Earth is from the stars. Unimaginably far, is what it is.

But here’s the thing, dearest little Prongslet. The people you love only seem that unimaginably far away when you’re really scared, like everyone who’s fighting the war right now is feeling. The important thing to remember is that it isn’t true. We’re all here, right next to you: me, your mum and dad, your uncles. All you ever need to do is call and someone will be there for you. That’s a promise we’ve made and we’re all sticking to it even if it kills us. At least then, we’ll know that all our efforts went towards protecting you, our shining star.

I think we can both agree the whole stars metaphor has overstayed its welcome, but...no, I don't suppose I should keep talking about this. Terrible of me, really, to be filling your head with all sorts of depressing war-time talk when this is supposed to be our fun and exciting party night together. Bad Dog, very bad Dog. I'm sorry. I'm turning the fun on again now.

Are you hungry? All this talking, you know, it makes you want to munch on something. Shall we go on a journey for munchies? Yes, let's.

And here's where the munchies are made, your mum's lovely kitchen. And who else is here? Who is it? Yes, it's the lovely Wolf, is who it is. We have a basket of love for him too, don't we? Yes, we do.

See how embarrassed he's getting over there by the stove. I told you, it's like a switch. Embarrassment, on. Let's go embarrass him some more. Kissy kissy! Prongslet kissies!

Oi, you. Yeah, you. I mean it, you know. I love you.

I love you. All right?

All right.

Okay. Let's sit you right down here, Prongslet. Right here at the head of the table, centre of the universe, light of our lives. Right here, where we can keep an eye on you always. Always. I promise. We both promise. Right?

Right? Remus?

Right.

We're all right.

**The End**

 

 


End file.
